“It looks as if she'd had a dose of one of these mydriatic drugs—atropine, or something of that sort. The eye-pupils are markedly dilated,” he pronounced.
Sir Clinton refrained from glancing at the Inspector.
“I suppose you couldn't make a guess at the time of death?” he inquired.
Dr. Ringwood tested the stiffness of the limbs, but from his face they gathered that it was almost a purely formal experiment.
“I'm not going to bluff about the thing. You know yourselves that rigor mortis is only the roughest test; and when there's an unknown poison to complicate matters, I simply couldn't give you a figure that would be worth the breath spent on it. She's been dead for some hours—and you could have guessed that for yourselves.”
“Congratulations, doctor! There are so few people in this world who have the honesty to say: ‘I don't know,’ when they're questioned on their own speciality. Now you might have a look at the wound, if you don't mind.”
While Dr. Ringwood was carrying out this part of his examination, Inspector Flamborough occupied himself in a search of the room. An ejaculation from him brought Sir Clinton to his side, and the Inspector pointed to a dark patch on the floor which had hitherto been concealed by one of the displaced chairs.
“There's quite a big pool of blood here, sir,” he said tilting the chair so that the Chief Constable could see it better. “What do you make of that?”
Sir Clinton looked at him quizzically.
“Think you've caught me tripping, Inspector? Not in this, I'm afraid. That's not the girl's blood at all. Unless I'm far out, it's young Hassendean's. Now, while you're about it, will you have a good look for empty cartridge-cases on the floor. There ought to be three of them.”